As One We Endure
by CoolnRainy
Summary: A series of one-shots on how Carlisle and Esme have withstood difficult and/or painful situations over their years as a couple.
1. 1927: Edward

**A/N:** Hi there :-) This story is a collection of one-shots about difficulties that Carlisle and Esme have faced in their life together, and how I imagine they might have dealt them together as a couple. This is not about troubles between them, but more around them … But still, it's fairly angsty. Hope you like it nonetheless.

**Disclaimer:** The concept of Twilight and its characters do not belong to me, but to Stephanie Meyer.

x x x

1927: Edward

Edward was angry.

Almost constantly, he was angry.

For weeks his dark mood simmered and then swelled in waves to encase him in its power. Esme and Carlisle were both worried for him and confused as to what was inciting this phase. Well, Esme was confused. Carlisle seemed more resigned in his concern and pain. However, other than occasionally expressing concern and then mutual consolation that he would snap out of it, they chose not to discuss it in depth. This was mainly because Edward would surely read their memories of such a discussion, and they both wanted to try and give him privacy in his misery. A misery that was profound in its intensity and bitterness.

He barely spoke to or acknowledged Esme and he was harsh and cruel to Carlisle, throwing biting remarks his way at every opportunity. Sometimes he would create the opportunity, as he did today. Today, it seemed, Edward was determined to break the world around him as he felt it was breaking him.

It had started unexpectedly for Esme, but it must have been something that Carlisle had been thinking as Edward passed through the living room. Esme had been engrossed in her novel as she sat curled up on the sofa right next to the fireplace, while the weather outside brewed a storm to match their household. She should have yielded nature's attempt at a warning, but it was not to be. Carlisle had been building a fire when Edward had sauntered into the room, and his thoughts must have been ensconced in concern for his son at just the wrong time.

Edward had emitted a bitter laugh, causing both Carlisle and Esme to look up at him in surprise. He was staring at Carlisle with a look of disdain painted over his timelessly youthful features.

"You have the gall to _pity_ me?" he asked icily, his eyes not leaving Carlisle's.

Warily, Esme closed her book and allowed it to rest on her lap. The tension was mounting quickly and worryingly. They could all sense that an explosion was imminent.

Carlisle must have replied in his mind, because Edward's hands balled into fists.

"How dare you," he hissed. "You have no right. You did this to me, so you do not get to feel sorry for me or care for my pain. I don't need your accursed sympathy."

Carlisle had slowly risen to his feet, his face cautious. Then he spoke out loud, so Esme assumed he was trying to keep her aware of the discussion.

"Edward, please stop. Stop loathing my love for you."

His voice was calm, but she sensed a deeper pain, which caused her own heart to clench. And the fact that she had sensed it meant that Edward was certainly aware of it. Her half-formed hope that he would not use it against his father died in her chest as he spat out, "Then stop needing me to stop. Stop loving me so much that you make me owe you. Stop your _love_, as you so elegantly call it, from keeping me trapped in your life. Just stop."

"I can't stop loving you," murmured Carlisle, clearly trying valiantly to keep his face from betraying how hurt he was. "I am so sorry you find it oppressive-"

"No, you're not," Edward retorted harshly. "There's no need to lie to me, _Carlisle_."

The way he said Carlisle's name was enough to cause the doctor to flinch ever so slightly. It had been full of contempt, full of dismissive sarcasm.

"Edward," Carlisle breathed, his breath forced out as though he had been winded. Esme flinched at his vulnerability, nausea swelling in her very soul. Watching her family in such a destructive state caused her insides to well with misery and trepidation.

"No, because you like it," Edward raged on, clearly at a point of no return. "Go on, admit it. Admit it to me and to your wife, Carlisle. Admit that you like that we rely on you. Admit that you like that we need you. Admit that you _created_ us to depend on you. Say it. Say that you relish the power."

"No."

His voice was uncharacteristically hard, granite-like in its quiet warning.

Edward sneered at him, and then turned to look at Esme.

"You know how long he hoped to possess you? Before he even knew who you were, or how he felt, or how you felt. He made you to possess you."

"Edward!" Carlisle snapped, his voice still hard but now laced with something akin to apprehension. Esme was startled, too, at the harsh nature of Edward's words. Startled that he would go as far as to try and soil her and Carlisle's love for each other, even though he must know it was an entirely fruitless venture. How lost was he?

"And now he's afraid you'll know the truth," Edward continued, still looking at her and steadfastly ignoring her thoughts. "He's afraid you'll believe me."

"No," said Carlisle, watching Edward and not looking at Esme. "No, I am afraid of the pain you are trying to cause us."

"You mean you."

"I mean Esme."

Esme rose slowly and cautiously from her spot on the couch. She was standing close to Carlisle now and facing their son, whose eyes had drifted back to his father, a faint smirk on his face.

"Yes, like you were afraid of the pain she would feel while she transformed for you. The pain she would feel fighting her thirst for you. The pain she would feel whenever she couldn't live up to your standards for you. Yes, you fear that pain so much that you forced it upon her. Sounds awfully selfish to _me_, Carlisle. So don't pretend that you are concerned for Esme right now."

Esme was trying to gather her own thoughts, trying to escape the poison of Edward's frozen words, but without much success. She became aware that Carlisle's hand had come up to grip her arm just above her elbow. It was a protective grip, as though he was preparing to snatch her to safety at any moment. She wondered if she should say something, but she couldn't think what.

"Are you talking about her, or yourself?" Carlisle asked, his voice gentle again, almost apologetic for his helpless understanding and insight.

"She's worrying about you now, you know," Edward said now, conveniently choosing to ignore Carlisle's observation. "She thinks it's her duty to defend us from each other. Yes, even me from _you_, Carlisle. Who knew I might need protection from you?"

Esme started, barely sure if Edward was telling the truth about her thoughts. It didn't seem right, but before she could decide, Carlisle spoke with more authority and anger than she had ever heard him use before.

"Do not try and drag your mother into this. She has nothing to do with your resentment towards me. If you must hurt me, do so, but do not use her hurt to get to me."

"Oh, how noble, what a martyr," snarled Edward in disgust. "Willing to bear the brunt of my unreasonable cruelty to protect her. Funny how you felt the need to speak that out loud. Just make sure she hears you take that bullet for her."

There was a pause, and Esme struggled to catch up with her emotions. She had managed to realise that Edward was using half-truths, reading their thoughts and twisting them to suit his darkness. Perhaps he even believed his versions of the truth, she did not know. But it was clear to her that he desired only to exact some sort of deep seated revenge on Carlisle for his own guilt.

"Oh, please, she does not come first," Edward spoke fiercely, Carlisle evidently having replied with his thoughts again. Edward seemed determined to shatter any privacy, however. "None of us do. You come first. Even your so called compassion is as selfish as Satan himself, because you fulfil _your _sense of duty instead of the desires of those around you. You only try to protect yourself from your own guilt. But God knows you spend the rest of your time finding more of it, digging up more of your endless wretched guilt for which _we_ must suffer to alleviate."

It was at this moment, at long last, that Esme could no longer stand it.

Carlisle's grip on her arm had tightened with the intensity of his hurt, and that grip had sent shards of his pain into her own soul. She pulled her arm free of his hold, but before he could respond to the perceived desertion, she took his hand with her own, her grasp tight and strong, taking control of his touch as she was about to take control of the situation.

"Enough, Edward," she said, her voice soft. Soft, but intensely, authoritatively firm. "That's enough for today."

There was a pause, and she knew Edward could sense her meaning as much as she tried not to dwell on it.

_That's enough pain. That's enough hurt that you are causing us all. _

For a moment, Edward glowered at her, his eyes flickering resentfully to where she held Carlisle's hand. She knew he saw it as her declaring allegiance to Carlisle, and perhaps he was right in some way. But even so, he could never bring himself to attack her as he did Carlisle. Instead, he cast his father a stony vindictive glare, but stopped. Stopped because her plea had reminded him that in his quest to cause Carlisle such vengeful agony, he was causing mirrored agony in her.

Esme turned slightly to look into the pained eyes of her mate, and gave his fingers a gentle tug that was as commanding as her tone.

"Come on," she said to him as if to lure a shy deer out into the open. "Let's go."

For a short moment, he seemed frozen as he gazed brokenly at his son, a broken gaze that was still filled with enough empathy, forgiveness and _love_ that she knew Edward would snap if he had to look at it for a moment longer. She tugged again with a touch more urgency and he listened, bowing his head and turning with her as they left the room.

She led him outside into their gardens. The storm clouds that had been gathering all afternoon were now blackening, leading them into an early evening while the day was still desperately trying to cling to its afternoon. The wind blustered around them, grabbing their hair and messing it up with determination. Through this she pulled him, walked him far away from the house, led him to the edge of the property, and then past it onto the cold rocks of the angry beach. The sea around them crashed and roared with the intensity of their souls, helped by the ferocity of the weather.

It was contradictive in its calming effect.

They stopped on the large flat rock where they so often came to gaze at the sea on days when the clouds left them in peace and allowed the sun to check in.

Together they stood, hands still clinging to each other with the determination of cement. Letting go was not an option, because when it felt as though everything was out of sync in their hearts, they had to remind themselves that their hearts were as linked as their hands.

She turned her head to look at him, but his eyes stayed fixed on the destructive scene of the waves in front of them. His face was drawn into an oddly unfamiliar bitter expression, and he was very determinedly avoiding her gaze. She was afraid of that bitterness, because she knew he was directing it at himself.

So she said his name. It wasn't said coaxingly or forgivingly or pityingly. She said it plainly, so as to remind him where he was, who he was, and who _she_ was to him. His partner, his mate, no longer the newborn that he was called to protect and shelter. He had been alone for so very long, and all contact he'd had with others, including his son and herself for a long time, had been as the role of the healer. As such, he sometimes forgot that he existed _with_ her, and not alone any more.

"Carlisle."

It was all he needed to bring him back, to barricade him from the door through which he might go to retreat into himself. The door that had once been his only escape, before he had found her. He turned to her then, at long last meeting her eyes, and the wind seemed to howl in relief.

They regarded each other hesitantly, both at a loss for words.

"He didn't mean it," she tried uncertainly. "Did he?"

It wasn't that she was wondering if Edward had spoken truths. She knew the real truths better than he did, despite the fact that she couldn't read minds. Perhaps that made it easier in the end, with less extra emotion to sift through. No, she didn't fear that he had spoken the truth. But she was afraid that _Edward_ had believed his words.

Carlisle grasped his bottom lip between his teeth, and then muttered, "I'm not sure. He did mean it as he said it, all of it. But how much he truly believes, I cannot say."

His voice had faded into a whisper, but she could see him fighting to remain strong. She became aware that she was frightened for him. Frightened of his guilt. Carlisle's sense of guilt was overwhelmingly unreasonable, and something Edward had skilfully used against him; now Carlisle would be trapped in a cycle of feeling guilt for his guilt.

"I _don't_ believe any of it," she told him very firmly.

His eyes flickered with hope and doubt like a sputtering candle.

"He may be right …" he said softly.

Esme reached forward and took his other hand in her free one. She brought the tangle of their fingers together, and pressed their hands against her chest as she gazed into his eyes.

"Carlisle … He is using his understanding of your mind, your compassion against you. He understands how to do it, how to make you doubt yourself. Why, he even did it to me. He was right when he said I wanted to protect you both from the fight, but he took it further when he said I thought he needed to be protected from you. That was not true, but for a second I wondered if it was … Don't you see?"

Carlisle gave a brief shake of his head, not in disagreement, but as though he was trying to free a cobweb from his hair.

"I do see," he replied tiredly. "I know his techniques, Esme, because we have had many of these disagreements before. All before you came into our lives. But it's been so long now that I barely know where to draw the line anymore. I no longer know what is as a result of his belief or his desire to lash out."

He looked confused, pained and helpless. For several seconds, she was as speechless as he was.

Finally he admitted, "He's right that I'm afraid of the effect his words had on you, Esme. I'm afraid he inadvertently hurt you more than he hurt me."

"I am only hurt by your hurt," she reassured him gently. "And none of that is your fault. Don't lose perspective, my darling."

He was looking at her now with an odd sort of dependence, as though he was clinging to her reminders in a desperate attempt to keep from drowning in his guilt.

"What about my desire to possess you?" he croaked now, his eyes flashing slightly.

She considered how best to answer this, because she knew it was the one thing Edward had said that had been closest to the truth. Not accurate by any means. Still shaded with his darkness. But it was close.

Eventually she presented her carefully constructed display of dedication and loyalty to him.

"Carlisle, don't forget that I know you. Don't forget that I understand what that desire was to you, and that it was not what Edward was trying to have me believe. I know the beauty of your desire, and I cherish being possessed by you." There was a pause as he looked delicately relieved. After a moment, she added in a slightly lighter tone, "In any event, know that you could have desired to possess me in your precious way, in your precious heart, from the moment you clapped eyes on me at sixteen, and I would be nothing but flattered."

He carefully unravelled their fingers so that he could wrap his arms around her and pull her against him. He did this so quickly that she didn't have time to move her own hands, and so they were squashed up against his chest between them as he folded her almost forcefully into his arms.

"Is that really so?" he asked in her ear.

"I've never wanted anything as much as to belong to you, my love," she answered softly, her voice muffled against his chest. "Except, perhaps, to have you belong to me. I wanted to possess you just as fiercely."

"You do possess me," he murmured.

"And you me," she agreed.

There was more silence, during which they both deeply inhaled each other's scents, before he finally eased his grip on her. He gently pulled his arms back to his sides, and then turned once more to face the sea. She followed his gaze, and waited for him to speak. When he did, his words were so very _him_ that she couldn't help the tortured love behind her smile at the beauty of his nature.

"My poor dear boy," was what he said, his kind voice laced with love.

"Yes," she agreed softly, allowing her focus to shift to their mutual love and concern for Edward. She wasn't even remotely troubled that he had used his singular possessive of their son: "My" as opposed to "Our". She knew he had done it subconsciously, as a way for his heart to reclaim the relationship that Edward had so fiercely rejected just a few minutes before, and she found it overwhelmingly touching. As was a usual daily experience, she felt her passionate love for her mate wash over her once more as though for the first time.

"How can I help him?"

She didn't think he was actually asking her. Even if he was, she didn't have an answer. She would never fully be able to understand Edward's resentment towards this life, let alone his resentment towards Carlisle. She herself had never had to endure it. As difficult as she had often found it to adjust to her knew being and lifestyle, she had always had the comfort of having found Carlisle here. She would go through it again and again if it meant she could spend eternity with this man.

She lifted her hand, and laid it gently on his shoulder at her side. It was a few long seconds before he lifted his own hand to cover hers.

The world was almost completely dark now, and a low rumble preceded the long promised arrival of the rain. It accelerated from single drops to a downpour in record time, drenching them both almost at once. Neither made an attempt to move, however. Carlisle merely removed the hand that had covered hers so that he could place it around her shoulders and tug her protectively against him. She moved closer, and placed her hand on his chest just below where her cheek rested. His chin perched warmly on the top of her head.

The storm around them grew angrier.

The lightning flashed, lighting up their silhouettes.

The thunder roared as it spotted them.

The wind grew fiercer.

The rain grew more unforgiving.

But there they remained all the same, close together and entirely motionless, like a lost marble statue.

They stayed like that for an inordinately long time. It was an odd thing about what they were. They could stand motionless and endure all forms of discomfort without realising it. They had so much time in life that they rarely felt impatient in their discomfort. They could have stood in that storm for twenty minutes or two hours, and it would have made very little difference to them. Instead, they relished in the wild emotion of the world around them, allowing it to envelope them in its intensity.

Finally, things eased up a bit. The thunder and lightning moved inland, the gale following in their wake. What was left was gentle, yet unrelenting rain, coupled with an otherworldly silence after the roars of the storm.

Until they heard him approach them from behind.

Both of them whipped around at once.

He was gazing at them, his face oddly expressionless, as he approached. He walked slowly as they watched him, allowing the rain to soak him as well, but he seemed not to care as he steadily moved closer. At last, he came to a stop before them, just too far for them to reach him from where they were. Esme had to fight the desire to run to him and wrap her arms around him. A long silence persisted, and Esme guessed he was trying to gauge their thoughts for him.

Finally, his façade dropped, and he hung his head in shame and defeat.

"I'm sorry," he said in quiet sincerity.

"Oh, Edward," breathed Carlisle, pain and forgiveness in his tone.

Edward looked up at his father then, and he looked frighteningly close to tears. Locking eyes with Carlisle, he spoke quietly.

"I am just so frustrated, you see."

Carlisle gave a slow nod beside her. She suddenly got the feeling that he was answering Edward in his mind, even though Edward gave no indication of this.

"I can't … seem to fight it anymore," Edward continued. "It's so very difficult, and I can't grasp that it's worth all this hardship."

Edward's eyes didn't leave Carlisle's face for a moment, and Esme began to feel a sense of doom even though she didn't quite understand why.

"So, Carlisle, my father," he half whispered, his voice almost cracking with emotion over the title with which he bestowed Carlisle, "I must once more ask your forgiveness for what I must do."

His eyes were laced with pain, imploring Carlisle very deeply. Carlisle's breath hitched painfully beside her, and it hit her why she felt such trepidation. Edward was _avoiding_ her glance. He was afraid to look at her …

"Because in order to dispose of my frustration, I cannot bring myself to allow you to see it."

"My son …" Carlisle murmured, his voice wretched.

Esme was gripped with terror as her mind refused to acknowledge something her heart had already realised. Because Edward, he had something hanging off his shoulder, something that looked horrifyingly as though it were a packed bag.

"Please understand. I only wish to minimise the pain I will cause you."

There was another pause during which Esme tore her eyes from her son's face to look desperately at her husband, hoping to see something in his expression to console her. But what she saw confirmed everything. What she saw made her heart feel as though it had shattered.

"No."

The word had slipped out of her lips like a wisp of smoke, so quiet that she didn't even know if Edward had noticed it over whatever it was Carlisle was saying to him with his mind. She looked back at her son, but he did not acknowledge her, his eyes still fixed on Carlisle.

"I … Please try and understand, Carlisle. I must do this. And I must leave you …"

Here, Esme broke, crying out her objection far louder than before. Carlisle's hand came up to grip her wrist in some desperate attempt to catch her before she fell.

"I must leave," Edward repeated in a slightly louder tone that only emphasised his own pain, "because I love you both too much to watch your pain as I turn away from you."

"Edward," Esme choked out, sobs threatening to grab hold of her and her eyes aching to be able to cry. "Edward, my boy, please don't leave us … Please stay …"

At long last, Edward dragged his eyes from his speechlessly crushed father to his distraught mother. She almost wished he hadn't, because the look of pain and tenderness that he gave her was terribly intense, and it stabbed mercilessly at her heart. Unable to stop herself, she rushed forwards into his arms and held him tightly against her. He cradled her tenderly, and murmured gently, "There, there, Esme, it'll be all right, you'll see. It's not like we'll never see each other. I'll visit. Oh, Esme, don't …"

He seemed to run out of stamina, and she felt his head shift to face Carlisle again. She imagined his look had been pleading, because the next moment Carlisle was at her side, gently prying her free of her grasp on their son. He, however, remained utterly, sickeningly silent. She found herself standing miraculously upright, probably assisted by Carlisle's firm hold around her waist. She looked at her husband, and he looked at Edward. He seemed numb, but stoic. His face still held that tremendous amount of love and compassion, even over the crestfallen shadow in his eyes.

"I _will_ see you again," Edward said now, very firm, his eyes on his father once more. He then shifted his eyes to Esme, and said firmly, "I love you so much, Esme. I would never leave you if I didn't think Carlisle could keep you happy. But he can, and he will. It will work out."

Esme's voice had inactivated, so she could do nothing but stare at her son with all the love in her heart, imploring him not to leave them with her eyes, her mind fuzzily reminding him that Carlisle needed him as much as she did.

Almost in reply, Edward looked again at his father, and said, "And Esme will take care of you, too. And I want you to know that I am grateful for everything … And I … I do love you …"

He fizzled out, apparently lost for words. Carlisle chose this moment finally to approach his son. He gathered him into his arms, and gripped him closely. Edward clutched his father, too.

"Take care, son," came Carlisle's whisper.

Esme froze. She could barely believe it … He was going to let him go so easily? She almost didn't remember the silent words he had exchanged with Edward with his mind. She watched their embrace of farewell, and felt so utterly desolate that she wanted to faint. She almost wished she could.

Finally they stepped back from each other. Edward ran his eyes over both of his parents for a few painful moments, and seemed to struggle against the urge to speak. Then he swallowed, gave a small shake of his head, and sighed out, "Good bye."

And then, in the most unbearable instant, he was gone, running away up the beach through the constant drizzle until he vanished.

The stunned, horrified silence swirled around them for a few icy moments, and then they fell into each other's arms, holding each other with all the comfort they could manage, and simultaneously accepting it from the other. Esme sobbed, the sounds soft yet fierce in her pain. Carlisle's shoulders shook in her arms as well, but his sobs were utterly silent.

And there they stood, lost together, mourning the departure of their beloved son.

x x x

**A/N: **I have four chapters for this story so far and I'd love to hear what you thought of this one. Thanks so much for reading!


	2. 1933: Rosalie

**A/N: **Hey, thanks very much to those who reviewed this story! It's always nice hearing what you think :-) Here's the next one-shot.

**Disclaimer:** The concept of Twilight and its characters do not belong to me, but to Stephanie Meyer.

x x x

1933: Rosalie

Rosalie Hale had been a vampire for a little over six months before she murdered the men who had destroyed her.

The first one she hunted and killed was the one who had broken her nose. He had been the first to strike her and she had instantly hated him for ruining her flawless face, so she thought it might be nice to ruin _hi__s _existence first. It took some time before she executed her plan, mainly because of that irritating Edward who read her every thought. Her fantasies and plans had not gone ignored by anyone in the family thanks to him, although Edward himself had neglected to speak to her about it. Carlisle and Esme, though, had both tried to talk her out of it. To no avail thus far, and they knew it.

Either way, she had waited until Edward and Esme had gone hunting, and snuck out while Carlisle had gone outside to fetch some wood for the fire. It had been disturbingly easy to track down the man, and even more disturbingly easy to kill him. In fact, the kill had seemed oddly humane, the vile creature barely having had time to process what was happening.

Royce would not be so lucky, she decided. He would know she was coming for him.

However much she savoured her revenge, killing somebody for the first time was still haunting. Not least because of her satisfaction. That disturbed her, although she would never admit that to anyone. It was just so feral, so animalistic, so very inhuman. She ran back to the house she was currently living in, ran right past Carlisle who was standing on the front lawn (most likely awaiting her return) and ran straight to her bathroom. There she lay in the tub fully clothed and allowed searing hot water to fill up around her.

It helped to act surreal when she felt surreal.

It wasn't long before she heard the soft knock at the door. She had known he would come.

"Rosalie?" he said tentatively.

She considered the situation, including the fact that her soaking pale dress revealed more of her body than was decent. But she didn't really care, she decided. Carlisle was not a threat, and she felt a perverse need to speak to the man who had so kindly destroyed her mortality now that she had so harshly enforced mortality on someone else.

"Yes, you can come in," she said in a flat voice that sounded almost ghostly.

Slowly, the door handle turned and he stepped inside. The room was very steamy from the hot water, and it took an extra moment to pick out his features through the haze. He glanced briefly over her and seemed to accept her obscure positioning without question. His eyes focused on hers, and she was struck, as always, by how very golden they were. And not just in colour, but in expression. A golden treasure trove of kindness.

She supposed her eyes were probably a red bloodbath of murderous intent. A perfect contrast to his.

Carlisle let out a tiny sigh, and then moved a stool so that he could sit facing her beside the tub. He radiated concern and resignation. He knew what she had done.

"I killed a man," Rosalie said anyway, almost enjoying his wince despite the unpleasant curl in her stomach at his pained eyes. It was so difficult to disappoint those damned eyes.

"Was it Royce?" he asked her quietly.

She gave a small snigger, once more pleased with her idea to torture her fiancé.

"No, not yet," she told him. "I'm saving him for last. This was one of the others."

She watched with interest as Carlisle reluctantly absorbed her words. Reluctantly came to accept that she would murder them all.

"Oh, Rosalie," he mumbled painfully.

He closed his eyes as though in mourning for the man she had killed, although she knew he was actually mourning the death of her innocence. She knew that because of the words he had spoken to her only the previous day in an attempt to dissuade her.

"_Rosalie, you are innocent. Those men destroyed you. Even I destroyed you. You have a right to be angry, to hate us__, to wish us dead__. But please, dear Rosalie, don't let our guilt destroy your innocence."_

Well, her innocence was gone now. In one night, it was gone forever. And she knew Carlisle mourned for its loss. She was pleased that he did.

"You are going to kill all of them," he stated at last, sounding unhappy.

"Yes," she agreed.

They stared at one another for a moment, the steam swirling around them. It was almost insufferably hot, except that nothing was insufferable for a vampire. They could suffer through just about anything, including immortality.

She waited for him to try and talk her out of it, but to her surprise, he merely bowed his head in defeat. She watched with interest as the pacifist man before her silently gave her … well, not his consent, but more his surrender.

"You're not going to try and stop me?" she asked curiously.

He paused for a long while as he gazed intently at her. That gaze was making things difficult again. It was making her feel badly.

At last, he said in a pained voice, "No. If this is how you choose to claim justice, to seek your revenge on those … those men who assaulted you, then I must accept your decision."

Her heart had almost reacted at the way he had faltered over the term "men", his eyes of gold flashing uncharacteristically. She realised that he, too, hated those men. Not with quite the same intense desire for revenge as she did, perhaps, but in as fierce a way as was possible for Carlisle to hate. She managed to edge one side of her mouth into a small smile for him, but he did not return it.

"I appreciate that," she said, meaning more than his acquiescence. He, however, couldn't know that. Not least because she would never tell him.

He seemed unable to respond. His hair was wilting slightly as the steam clung to the strands, pulling them down onto his forehead. It gave a very good effect in emphasising the wilting of his spirit. Carlisle hated the thought of murder, of causing others pain.

"You would kill them, too," said Rosalie firmly, secure in her certainty. "You would kill them if they were coming after Esme, wouldn't you?"

His intense eyes were fixed on hers, but he said nothing. She took this as confirmation.

"Well," she continued, "just think of this as me stopping them from doing this to someone's Esme."

A frown formed on his forehead under his damp locks, and he muttered, "But that is not your true motivation."

"No," she agreed without hesitation. "But it might help _you_ feel better to think of it that way."

He eyed her with an odd curiosity, and asked, "Why should it matter how I feel about it?"

She blinked in surprise at the question and considered it, unsure of her own answer. Finally, with a dismissive shrug, she said, "Because I'm not trying to get revenge on you, so there's no need for you to suffer so."

He looked strangely touched and, in conjunction with how touched she was still feeling at his anger on her behalf, it prompted her to comment on something that had been bothering her.

"Yesterday, you referred to yourself as though you were one of them. I just … you were stupid to change me without my consent and you should not have done so no matter how good your intentions. A part of me will always hate that you did this to me. Even now, looking at you, I am furious. But for God's sake, you are not one of _them_, Carlisle. However misguided your actions, you were trying to save me while they were trying to destroy me. If not for them, you would never have felt the need to condemn me to this wretched existence. _They_ stole my humanity from me, not you. And so, please refrain from thinking I despise you as if you were one of those brutes."

Carlisle's warm eyes had been watching her with a very mixed expression while she spoke, an expression that included pain, regret, gratitude and a tender love. He then seemed to need a moment before he managed to give a small nod and murmur, almost under his breath, "Thank you, Rosie."

It was a name she had never allowed anyone to call her in her life, feeling it horrendously undignified, but somehow as it slid from Carlisle's lips, she didn't feel quite so resentful towards it. It made her feel accepted and safe. She may resent this man for what he had done to her, but she could never truly hate him. He radiated such safety, something she was irresistibly drawn to after her ordeal.

It made her not want to leave him.

In a very similar way to how Esme made her not want to leave her. Esme was the one who Rosalie considered the closest to a friend in the family, and the one she felt not a scrap of resentment for. The woman was kind, loving and sympathetic. Sympathetic from experience, and that shared experience inspired trust. As far as Rosalie could see, Esme had done nothing at all except love and protect her since Carlisle had brought her home. Oddly, even though she agreed with Edward's anger at what Carlisle had done to her, she preferred Esme's unquestioning love and acceptance. She still wanted to feel wanted.

It was for Esme that Rosalie had waited so long before fulfilling her dark deed. And now that she had, she felt far worse about Esme's reaction than about anything else. She was afraid to face it.

"Could you please tell Esme?" she asked Carlisle suddenly. He looked at her in some surprise, and she realised that he had little reason to do such a favour for her.

She was in the midst of constructing a legitimate reason for him to do so, however, when he merely responded with a quiet, "All right."

Taken aback, she asked, "You will?"

"Yes, if it will make things easier for you."

He spoke as though this was entirely natural. She was grateful, and it irritated her. Her helplessly soft feelings towards the man who had changed her made it unfairly difficult to savour her resentment towards him.

"Thank you. I … I will talk to her about it myself tomorrow. I just can't bear to be the one to tell her." She paused, and then mumbled in an almost abashed tone, "And I don't feel I can face discussing it further tonight."

He gave her a slow nod, but didn't move as she had been hinting.

"Did you drink his blood?"

His blunt question startled her, but she gave a grimace and said, "No. I couldn't bear to have any part of that monster inside me. I made sure not to spill any blood."

Carlisle studied her with an interested and impressed expression.

"Such control for a newborn …" he murmured.

She felt the need to correct him. She would not accept any kind of credit from _him_. Not for this.

"No, just incredibly intense disgust. Much like your incredibly intense compassion, except yours protects all humanity. Mine is only for those men who assaulted me, and it is not protecting them."

Carlisle's eyes were fixed on hers again, and then he sighed before standing up.

"Good night, Rosalie, dear," he said formally, but his eyes were full of tenderness.

"Good night, Carlisle," she replied and kept her eyes blank, because she didn't want him to see her resentment in that moment. Somehow his gentle term of endearment had sparked a simultaneous rush of fury and loyalty within her, and she didn't want him to know of either.

Perhaps that was her revenge after all.

x x x

Feeling decidedly mournful, Carlisle left Rosalie in her obscure fully-clothed bath to wallow in the after effects of her first act of revenge.

Part of him still felt the urge to try and convince her not to go on. Convince her, as he had attempted many times, that they could find other ways to punish those monsters. He, Carlisle, had offered to take care of it himself, to ensure that they spent a very long time in prison. This had never been enough for Rosalie, however. She wanted them to lose what she had lost. Carlisle himself knew in his soul that what she was doing was wrong and he rebelled against it with all he was, but he had meant what he had said. If this was what she chose to do in order to have justice in her heart, a heart that he had condemned to a frozen eternity, then he could not stop her. He had no right.

Still … It made him desolate. He had turned that innocent girl into a murderer.

He went to sit on the bench on their front porch to await Edward and Esme's return. Ordinarily, he and Esme preferred to hunt together, but what with Edward and Rosalie's endless conflict, they found it better not to leave the two of them home alone together too often. What a shame that they loathed each other so, he thought gloomily.

He sat and dreaded return of his wife and son. He dreaded Edward's predictable fury when he read Carlisle's mind. Mostly, he dreaded Esme's doubtless grief. His dear wife loved that girl as a daughter, had loved her that way without hesitation or restraint from the day he had brought her home. It would hurt her so much to know that Rosalie had finally annihilated her own innocence and purity. And it would hurt him to watch it.

He was relieved, however, that he would get to tell her himself. He knew it would hurt Rosalie terribly to see Esme's initial reaction, her shock. He knew better than Rosalie what to expect and how much his wife would grieve. Rose was afraid to disappoint Esme, but she would feel so much worse to see Esme's anguish. Yes, he was glad that he could do that for her, and be able to calm and comfort his mate before Rose had to speak to her.

Esme was the one who Rosalie loved. He wasn't surprised; Esme inspired love in almost anyone she met, mainly because her love flowed so freely. Edward, too, had loved her almost at once. It was a tremendous gift that Esme was here for Rosalie after all that had happened, that she could give her the warmth and safety of her love.

Rosalie had a typically rebellious attitude towards him for changing her, as Edward had. Although, she was also more … understanding than Edward had chosen to be as a newborn, despite being no less resentful. He wondered if that was Esme's influence, but regardless, it was a relief. Her anger and resentment towards him hurt, but she also had moments of grudging tenderness towards him which warmed his soul.

As she had earlier.

Her assurance that she did not view him as one of the monsters who had destroyed her humanity had filled him with an indescribable joy. He loved Rosalie just as much as Esme did, and to know that she did not hate him was a beautiful relief. Rose was far simpler than Edward in how she interacted with those around her. She didn't hide her thoughts or feelings, and she didn't overanalyse those around her.

When she was angry, she showed it. If she resented him, she told him. But if he said that he had done what he had done because he had cared, she didn't doubt his motivation. Yes, she was an easier newborn than Edward had been in many ways. And she provided much needed feminine company for Esme. Carlisle couldn't bring himself to regret bringing Rosalie into his family, even if he did regret her misery and his guilt. He was saddened that she loathed what she was so much, but he hoped that with time, she would grow to accept her new life with them.

If she chose to stay.

But it seemed she would. She was honest in that, too, saying that she appreciated the company and that she liked their lifestyle. Ironic, he thought glumly, considering her recent act of murder. But the fact that they didn't drink human blood made her feel more human. It had little to do with morality, and almost everything to do with her lost humanity.

He sat and thought about his new daughter, grieved for her, worried about her and loved her until it was almost dawn. Then he heard the tell-tale sounds of the return of his mate and son. He got to his feet, and made his way to stand at the edge of the porch as he awaited their appearance. They materialised through the morning mist a few seconds later and he could hear their carefree laughter. It both warmed and hurt his heart.

As they approached, he quickly sent an urgent thought to his son.

_Edward, don't say anything to Esme. _

They were close enough now that he saw Edward's reaction as he heard the thought, momentarily puzzled, and then was hit with the realisation of what had happened. He looked furious, as Carlisle had known he would.

_I'll tell her, Edward._

His son accepted this with barely a nod of acknowledgement. He was distracted by his anger. They reached him then, Edward stopping a meter or so away while Esme flew straight into his arms to kiss him hello. They had been gone for over twenty four hours, always an unfairly long time to be apart.

"Hello, my love," he said when she pulled away, and gave her a strained smile.

Her eyes flickered over his troubled expression, and she immediately looked concerned.

"What's the matter?" she asked, looking instinctively over at Edward, most likely to gauge how worried she should be. Edward merely gave a huff of displeasure and then vanished into the house. She turned back to study his eyes.

"Let's go for a walk," he suggested mildly, wanting to be away from the house when he told her. Rosalie would doubtlessly hear every word if they talked here.

Without a moment of hesitation, she took his hand and turned with him from the house to head in the direction of the forest. They ran until they joined up with the river, and then they continued along its banks until they reached a quiet area populated by rock pools.

It was a short widened area of rocks which caused the river to shallow out as it spread into the many pools they created. Surrounding this area was extremely dense forest on all sides, the banks entirely made of rock. At the very top of the area was a tall flattish rock that sat like a plate in the middle of the river, which flowed into the pools in front of it.

It was to that rock that Carlisle and Esme leaped, landing gracefully side-by-side. They turned to face the direction of the flow of the river and sat down close together. The water gurgled and flowed softly around them and other than that, the area was silent. On this dark morning, the many flat pools before them were reflecting the silver of the persistent moon so that they looked like glassy mirrors.

This was their private space, the one they liked to visit in order to be alone, away from sharp ears and knowing minds listening in. They had found that they liked having such areas wherever they lived, areas where they could talk, make love or just share in each other's company. Their last had been on the quiet private beach, much closer to their home. But they didn't mind that this one was a bit far, especially due to their preference for having water nearby. It was soothing, and also lovely to swim in if they were feeling playful.

In fact, this was the very place Carlisle had brought her at midnight to dance in their ten year anniversary. He had filled every dry rock with candles, and all the pools with white lilies. The central rock had been adorned with a carpet of pale pink rose petals and they had danced under the starry moonlight for hours on end on that very rock until they had sunk down to make love in a flurry of petals under the sunrise.

This cold morning, however, called for a much more serious use for their haven.

As soon as they had settled down on the rock, Carlisle took Esme's hands into his and held them in his lap, caressing her fingers in a calming manner.

"What is it?" she asked apprehensively.

Deciding not to beat about the bush, Carlisle said, "Rosalie tracked down and killed one of ... of those men."

As he had known she would, Esme blanched in shock before her face crumpled into a crestfallen expression. It was always the worst expression to colour her gentle face.

"Oh no, Carlisle, she couldn't have. Tell me she didn't ..."

He didn't reply, and merely continued massaging her hands soothingly as he waited for her to step forward from denial. Esme's first response to the news of anything horrible was always reflex denial, because it was always a shock to her kind and loving heart that such things were possible. But her reason always stepped in very quickly.

Sure enough, a second later she gave a pained sigh of acceptance, and mumbled, "Oh, poor Rosalie. My dear, dear Rose ..."

She sounded so desolate and yet so filled with sympathy, that Carlisle couldn't not pull her into his arms. It helped him, too, not to see Esme's intense pain at Rosalie's loss of innocence. He was relieved a hundred times over that he had been the one who told her. Her passionate love always made her feelings regarding those she loved almost violently intense.

After a long silence during which he held her very close and she clutched him tightly, Esme pulled back slightly and asked, "Which one did she ..."

"I don't know. Not Royce, but one of the others."

He saw dread creep over her features now, and he gave a tiny nod.

"Yes, she intends to get to him, too. In the end."

He watched hopelessness on her features now, and thought about how fiercely he loathed seeing it there. But it was all expected. Telling his wife that their new daughter had committed murder and intended on committing more was an unpleasant task. Any mother would break down.

After a moment of hesitation, she asked with a somewhat worried curiosity, "Did ... Did you try and stop her?"

"I didn't realise she had gone until it was too late." He gave a regretful sigh, and added, "I doubt I would have managed either way."

Esme nodded in reluctant agreement.

"And, Esme," he continued, slightly uncertainly, "I'm not going to try and stop her from killing the rest."

She didn't look horrified or angry, but only interested.

"I think she has made her decision about how she wants to handle this, and in the end, I have no right to get in the way anymore."

A pause ensued, and then Esme gave a tiny nod before observing miserably, "It probably wouldn't make a difference anyway."

"No, probably not," he agreed softly.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. Esme rested her head on his shoulder, and he held her close. Both were feeling deeply gloomy. There was something oddly chilling about Rosalie's desire to kill when it wasn't from bloodlust. To Carlisle, it felt worse. Which reminded him.

"You know, she didn't drink his blood," he said conversationally, barely smothering his oddly paternal pride.

"Really?"

"She said she was too disgusted by the thought of having anything of his inside of her. But even so ... It's pretty impressive that she maintained her judgment, considering she's a newborn."

"Mm."

There was another pause and then Carlisle asked very softly, "Do you think I made a terrible mistake, changing Rosalie?"

She looked up at him with a deepening concern. He knew she hated his self-doubt, almost as much as she hated his uncertainty. But she was the one who had to see it the most, and so she was the one who knew best how to deal with it. Which, with Carlisle, was to be honest rather than offer soft reassurances.

"I don't know. Maybe."

Her voice was painfully gentle.

"She would say yes," he pointed out.

"Yes," was Esme's mild agreement, but her fingers had found their way into his hair and were consolingly massaging his scalp.

Needing to get this off his chest, he confided, "She told me tonight that while she hates what I did to her, she doesn't blame me for the loss of her humanity."

Esme looked lovingly at him, and murmured, "No, she doesn't. She resents you, but she doesn't hate you. Not like she hates ... them."

"Hm. It was a relief to realise that. I admit I was touched."

Esme pressed a kiss to his cheek, a way to tell him that she was also touched for them. She was happy when her family could love each other, and there had been a lot of discord since Rosalie's arrival. It wasn't surprising.

He gave a sigh.

"She was the one I was least conflicted about," he admitted. "With Edward, I battled violently with myself about what to do. And then for years afterwards, I agonised over whether it had been the right decision."

"Well, he helped you with that," she pointed out with a small smile. Now that Edward had so fiercely forgiven him, and had in fact taken on a demeanor of unthinkable admiration and devotion, it was easier to smile indulgently about those times.

"Yes, well … Enough of it came from me. I may have toyed with the idea out of loneliness, but if it weren't for his mother begging me, I would not have done it. I was stunned that I had. And then with you ..."

He paused there, the memory of his wild conflict overwhelming him.

"You had tried to kill yourself. There was no reason to assume you might want to be saved. It was the most selfish of the three, Esme. I remembered you and how much I liked you, and I was irrationally over protective. I didn't want the world to lose you."

"Well, it worked out well enough," she smiled.

He returned her smile, and said, "Yes. You know how surprised I was by your lack of resentment."

"I was just so happy to see you again."

They took a moment to kiss. They had spoken about this many times, but whenever he stopped to think about it, he couldn't fail to be amazed at his good fortune. The coincidence of their falling in love seemed predesigned in its perfection. It made him dabble in beliefs of fate and God with more conviction than before.

When they pulled apart, his smile faded slightly.

"You spoiled me, my dear. It made me overconfident with Rosalie."

He gave her a small humorous grin, and she gave him a winningly bashful smile.

"Come now, Carlisle. There were other factors."

"Yes," he agreed, truthful and yet doubtful. "Yes, based on what I knew about Rosalie Hale, I doubted she wanted to die, and she was about to. And I thought she might appreciate her enhanced beauty -"

"Which she does."

"Which she does," he agreed, allowing his lips to turn up slightly to mirror Esme's. "And then I thought of you and Edward ..." Here he paused and gave a small shake of his head. "It was a mistake. It is always a gamble. I can never predict if someone will want this."

"No, but you only do it to save, Carlisle."

There was a moment then where things became clear to him.

"And how many did this save? Not Rosalie, if you ask her heart. Not those men she is murdering. No, Esme, I'm not going to do it again."

She looked at him with curiosity.

"Ever?"

"Ever."

She seemed to consider that, and then settled her head on his shoulder, one hand caressing his hair and the other holding one of his hands in her lap.

"All right then, my love," she murmured. "But at the very least, know that I am grateful for the family you have created for us."

He gave a soft hum of acknowledgement, inhaled the scent wafting from his wife's hair and smiled. Yes, it was almost worth it all to hear her say that. But he was certain. Never again would he so carelessly do to someone what he had done to Rosalie.

As for what he had done to Esme? Well, he could safely say that that would never happen again.

x x x

**A/N: **Thanks for reading!


	3. 1991: Esme

**Disclaimer:** The concept of Twilight and its characters do not belong to me, but to Stephanie Meyer.

x x x

1991 Esme

Carlisle found out about his wife's most recent slip thanks to a phone call from Rosalie. It had been so long since the last time that he was caught completely off guard. A good thirty years. No, longer.

"Dr Cullen? Your daughter's on the phone for you."

Even that didn't alert him.

"Hello?" he had said into the phone, speaking up because he was at a nurse's station in the very midst of the operating theatres and there was a lot of bustle happening around him.

It was shortly before seven in the morning, the busiest time of day for the surgical wing. Surgeons liked to get going early. Officially they started at eight, and many refused to start a minute later without copious complaints. Cardio-thoracic and neurosurgeons were the worst. They started earlier if at all possible, mumbling about the long busy day full of long complex surgeries they had before them. All around, hospital employees were striding through the halls, pulling scrub caps over their heads and consulting their watches.

Porters were hovering along the passages between theatres, waiting to be instructed to fetch required patients and chattering about how early it was. Many were yawning. A couple had already received their assignments and were headed to the correct ward, or wheeling pale faced patients to the correct theatres.

Nurses were preparing the operating theatres, cleaning them, and making sure they were equipped with all necessary supplies. The ones taking care of the more bad-tempered surgeons were more flustered, and always seemed to be missing something small, yet vital. "Someone's taken the extension cord for the mobile X-ray!" or "Why didn't anyone replace the suction containers?" they would moan. The listed scrub nurses ignored them, focussing on laying out the correct instruments required for their surgery on the trays.

Anaesthetists were always early, too. They had to be completely prepared for their surgeon before he arrived, or they too found themselves on the receiving end of narcissistic grumbles. They studied the lists, consulting on whether it may be more appropriate to do a different surgery first because patient A had snuck in some breakfast. Others were wheeling machines into the theatres where they would check them before drawing up the necessary drugs and ensuring all the equipment for intubation was there. The real early birds were already examining their patients and putting in IV lines.

Fluttering around all this were the surgical interns, who were nervously making sure everything was in place. They had to make sure the patient was the correct patient, was present and was ready. They had to make sure the correct surgery was listed on the board. They had to make sure all the blood results ordered the previous day had been reported and assessed as safe for surgery. They had to make sure they had taken any other necessary samples before the surgery. And they had to make sure they were intellectually prepared to assist the surgeon.

There were even a couple of surgeons already present. They hung around sipping coffee and looking bored, or joking around with each other. The friendlier ones would chat to the nurses and anaesthetists while they waited for them to get things ready.

Carlisle was there because he had been the trauma surgeon on call the previous night. He was, in fact, preparing for an emergency appendectomy on an eleven year old boy when the nurse poked her head into the theatre and summoned him to the phone. Abandoning the intern he had been helping with the IV line with an encouraging, "You've got it now," he had followed the nurse to the phone.

"Carlisle, it's Rose," she said, and he felt immediately concerned. She sounded worried.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's Esme, she … well, she accidently attacked someone."

Stunned, Carlisle cursed in his mind.

_Esme._

"Is she all right?" he asked at once.

There was a pause before Rosalie admitted, "I'm not sure. She doesn't really want to talk about it. Edward saw what happened in her mind when she got home … He's gone with Emmett to see what can be covered up, and Esme's upstairs. She's not crying, but she's not talking either."

"She turned you away?"

"Politely, but yes."

He assessed the information, and ranked Esme's doubtless pain at a relative middling-to-bad. She wasn't sobbing, which was good. But it was the only good sign. She hadn't told Edward, he had read it. She had been unable to cover up. She was turning away speaking to her children. She hadn't called him first.

"I'll be home as soon as I can," he promised. "Do what you can to reassure her in the meantime, won't you?"

"Like you have to ask," Rosalie retorted with affectionate rebuke.

"Thanks, Rose."

"Hurry home."

As soon as he hung up, Carlisle stepped back into the theatre. The intern had just finished hooking up the IV line to the bag of saline and was looking pleased with himself. It would have taken Carlisle a fifth of the time at human pace, but all the same he gave the intern a warm smile. It was difficult to smile over his internal distress. He wanted to be running home at that very moment.

_Esme._

"Nicely done," he said, and the intern beamed. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name?" he added politely. Incidentally, the slip was due to the fact that the intern had neglected to introduce himself, but Carlisle felt it unnecessary to point that out.

"Jeremy Frasier," he said at once.

"All right, Jeremy, would you do me a favour?"

"Yes, of course."

"My wife has had a small emergency, so I need you to find another surgeon who can do this surgery. Call Dr Terrance first, I believe he is supposed to be on trauma today."

Surprised, the intern nodded and stepped quickly out of the theatre. Carlisle returned to making sure his theatre was ready, laying out the packed gowns and fishing for sterile gloves to lay on the pile, hoping to delay the surgery's commencement by as little as possible. It also helped to do something, _anything_, so as to distract himself from the fierce pull homewards.

_Oh, Esme._

"Is Esme all right?" asked Dr Stan Mitchells, the anaesthetist, as he peered out from behind his machine.

He was someone Carlisle considered as close to a friend as he allowed himself with humans. He and Stan made a point of working the same theatre when they could, and he and Esme had joined him and his wife for dinner more than once (Events that, while providing enjoyable social interaction, were tedious due to the discomfort of forcing down and later retching up human food).

"Yes," said Carlisle, providing the usual, "Her mother has just suffered a severe MI and Esme is distraught. It sounds unlikely that she will recover."

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry," said Stan with feeling. "You should go, I'll make sure this is all ready."

"Yes, go, Doctor," said Maria, the scrub nurse who had been listening in with deep concern. "We can do all this."

It was a sorely tempting offer.

"Thanks," said Carlisle with a grateful, albeit strained smile, and forced himself to say, "but I must make sure Dr Terrance gets here soon ..."

He glanced uncertainly down at the unconscious boy between them. He should still be awake considering they now had to await the arrival of another surgeon. Carlisle had been minutes away from opening, having been about to scrub up. He suddenly wondered if he _should_ just do the surgery. It was a relatively quick one after all. But then he thought of his pained wife at home, and hesitated. He could _start_ it so long, and allow Dr Terrance to complete it … Not ideal by any means.

_Esme._

Almost as if a god had heard him, the doors burst open and the bear-like figure of Dr Terrance appeared in the room, Jeremy the intern scuttling in his wake.

"Need help with a simple appendectomy, Cullen?" he demanded loudly, with a wide grin.

He was the next best trauma surgeon in the hospital, and had decided on starting a friendly (and one-sided) rivalry with Carlisle. He was so much like Emmett in his frightening, yet good humoured nature that Carlisle couldn't hold back a smile whenever he saw the doctor. He was also a fantastic person to work with, and the two of them often made a good team.

"You're here early," Carlisle observed in relief.

"Thank God, I should know better than to assume you'll cope one night without me." He gave Carlisle a wink at that point, and asked, "What's the deal with this boy then?"

Carlisle gave him a quick summary, now positively twitching with the need to get home. He then thanked him profusely and bid them all a hurried goodbye as he backed out of the room. He liked these men he worked with. He liked the large size of this hospital. He liked being able to help more patients with his skills. He liked to teach.

He would miss this place if they had to move.

He drove very quickly. They all drove too fast - a hazard of who they were - but he was generally the more careful driver of the family. Seeing enough victims of car accidents did that to him. But not today. Today he drove as fast as he could, arriving home in record time. Rosalie was sitting on the front porch waiting for him.

He was out of the car and in front of her in a moment.

"How is she?"

"She's waiting for you," Rosalie said, getting to her feet. "Alice and Jasper left to hunt last night, and they're not back. Although I imagine Alice saw what happened, so they're probably on their way. I'm going to help Emmett and Edward. "

Carlisle nodded appreciatively. Rosalie gave him a quick comforting smile and pat on the shoulder, and then ran away in a blur. Within an instant, Carlisle had flown up the stairs, only to come to a stop outside his and Esme's room. Here he paused for the slightest moment before opening the door and stepping inside.

She was lying on her back on the floor in front of the large windows that gazed out on the landscape around their home. They were up on a ridge that provided a beautiful view of the world below them. Her head was resting on a pillow she had borrowed from their bed and her eyes were fixed on the sky above.

"Esme?" he offered, knowing she knew he was there.

"Ten."

"I'm sorry?" he asked gently, stepping slowly towards her.

"That's ten I've killed now," she clarified, her voice tinged with an oddly hazy quality.

_Ah, of course_, he thought to himself. He had never consciously kept count, but she was right come to think of it. Ten. Ten was a significant number. A poetic number. A complete number.

A large number. There was no denying it, and yet ... funny how it felt like it should have been more.

Her eyes flicked down to rest on him as he reached her side. Aside from their new burgundy shade, he noticed that they were tired and vulnerable. However, they warmed somewhat as they made contact with his.

"You're looking very doctor-like," she observed with a ghost of a smile.

He glanced down and realised that he had neglected to change when he had left the hospital. He was still in the faded green, too large scrubs that the hospital provided. Feeling slightly self-conscious, he reached up to pull the plain green scrub cap off his hair. She smiled slightly at his movement.

After dropping the scrub cap at his feet, he lowered himself onto the floor to lie beside her, resting his head closely beside hers on the pillow. Their eyes didn't break contact throughout this time, and she turned her head so she could stay facing him. He mirrored her position, lying on his back, his hands crossed over his abdomen, legs slightly bent, head turned to face her. Their upper arms were pressed together.

"Tell me," he murmured.

There was a short pause as she seemed to gather her thoughts and then she spoke, her voice softer than a whisper.

"I wanted to watch the sunrise over the mountains near the lake. I was sitting there, enjoying it, and this scent gripped me. It was so powerful ... She had fallen, and had a large gash on her thigh. There was so much blood, and I ... It was like I was a newborn again. I lost all sense of who I was. Before I knew it, I was kneeling beside the body of a woman who I would say is very close to my human age. She's a mother, Carlisle."

At this last sentence, she finally looked away from him with a wince. Her eyes travelled back up to watch the sky, or rather the clouds that blanketed it.

He didn't ask how she knew her victim had been a mother. It didn't matter. Instead, he reached over to take one of her hands in his. She accepted the gesture, curling her fingers in his like a small child curling up against its parent for comfort. He held her hand against his stomach and continued to watch her as she continued to watch the sky.

"I didn't expect it," she said at last. "It's been so long … I didn't even expect anybody to be there. I let my guard down completely. I can't believe it. I really thought I had conquered myself. I thought it was over …"

She turned back to give him a searching expression.

Considering his words, he confided softly, "Yes, it did seem that way. You've been so very controlled, my love, over these past thirty years. You _have_ conquered yourself. This was ... just an exception."

"I don't want to have exceptions."

"No. But they're bound to happen just the same. You have had many situations where you managed to fight temptation very impressively, and I'm so _proud _of you. I know this is a terrible situation, as is every death caused by one of us, but it is hardly a reflection on you or how far you've come."

She heaved a reluctant sigh. She also neglected to point out that he had never had his own exception, because it was an old, unpleasant, pointless argument. By now, she knew he understood, and he was grateful. That argument had always made him feel self-conscious and a bit guilty.

"Yes," she agreed vaguely, seemingly speaking to the clouds. "You're right. There is no room for self-pity here … Only grief. So now I must grieve for the loss of an innocent young woman and try to fight the guilt and regret on my part."

"To this day, I believe that that sense of guilt and regret is a blessing."

"Hm."

The worst part about these incidents was how she withdrew into herself. She didn't exactly withdraw from him personally, and he was the one who could draw her out to him, but he hated that he had to. He hated that she had to hide. He missed her already.

They lay together in silence and said nothing. Carlisle considered their options. Until his children returned, he wouldn't be able to ascertain whether they had to move or not. Hopefully not. They had only been here three years.

Either way, he knew he would take time off from the hospital. He worked so much overtime that he knew it wouldn't be a problem. But then what? Should they stay home? He'd rather take her away somewhere where they could recover together in private. But where? His first thought, of course, was her island. However, he rejected that at once.

Isle Esme was a place of joy, not grief.

In that vein, he thought they should go somewhere they hadn't been before. But not somewhere with too many sites or too many people. Maybe somewhere peaceful, filled with nature. Like lower Africa, or perhaps New Zealand. It was the right time of year for the Southern Hemisphere. They could find a private cottage or bungalow in the mountains somewhere ... She would love that, love to escape to such peace with him by her side.

All the time he had been thinking, he had stayed watching her and she had stayed watching the sky. Her face was calm, but mournful. She would mourn that woman as if she were her own mother, the child as if it were her own child, the husband as if he were Carlisle. Esme's passion meant it was impossible for her not to.

All the same, she had grown. Her first few had been devastating for her and she had been so much more intense in her pain. Her years, maturity and experience had calmed her and given her perspective. He imagined that it was the shock of this time that was hitting her the hardest.

"Esme?"

"Yes?"

She still gazed far away. He began to envy the clouds.

"We'll go away for a while, okay?"

"... Okay."

Still he wasn't blessed by the sight of her eyes.

"My darling, will you look at me?" he asked then, unable to hold himself back.

She turned to him at once, almost as though she had forgotten she was no longer looking at him. Her eyes were filled with grief and an odd desperation for his comfort. He reached for her in an instant, pulling her body tightly against him. She tucked her head beneath his chin, huddling there as though she couldn't get close enough.

"Tell me," she said, her voice muffled and vibrating through his neck.

"I love you, eternally, my Esme," he replied without thought, but with dedicated intensity. She always needed him to say it in moments like this. She had long ago assured him that she didn't doubt it, but hearing him say it was like hearing her favourite song. It comforted her. Flattered, he had never again hesitated to say the words when she asked, never again fearing that she doubted his love.

After a pause, she whispered, "Thank you," and he kissed the part of her head closest to his lips.

x x x

"No! No, I refuse," she said firmly.

"My darling, we have no choice," he reasoned gently.

"I won't be responsible for uprooting this family," she maintained, looking more stubborn than he had seen her look in a very long time. "There must be a way we can stay, there _must_ …"

Carlisle sighed.

There had been a great misfortune in the fact that a young teenage boy had seen Esme at the lake that morning from the top of the great ridge on the side of the mountain where he had been camping. He had later seen Edward and Emmett as he had descended down towards the lake, emerging from the trees. Edward had immediately heard his thoughts. At that point, the boy had thought little of the situation as he had not in fact witnessed the murder nor seen the body. Edward had managed to get rid of him, dispatching him home.

Unfortunately, the potential murder site had been guessed by the police, as the victim and her family lived close by the lake. They all knew she had gone for a walk there early that morning. The police put out word, and before long, the boy informed them of seeing three of the Cullens there that very morning.

Of course, there was absolutely no way to prove their involvement, not least because there was no body or any sign of foul play. In addition, the Chief Inspector, who knew Carlisle well from his work in the trauma department, had completely disregarded the theory. However, rumour-wise, the damage had been done. Questions had been asked, suspicions had been raised and gossip had been spread. Deeper questions were being asked about those strange Cullens who lived up on a mountain and kept to themselves.

They had to move on.

Carlisle and Esme had returned from their week-long trip "to see to Esme's mother's funeral and other arrangements" just that morning. They had left shortly after the first apologetic visit by the Chief Inspector of the police department. Carlisle had kept in contact with him via e-mail throughout their trip to New Zealand, so as to remain as unsuspicious as possible. It had worked. With every e-mail from the Chief Inspector, there had been repeated assurances that there was no case, as well as profound apologies for the inconvenience of the investigation.

They were currently seated in the living room, the whole family having gathered to discuss the inevitable situation. Esme had been horrified when Edward and Alice reported the current state of affairs to the rest of the family. She had been the only one. Rosalie, the one who most often caused a scene when they had to move on, said not a word in protest. Such was her devotion to Esme. However, the lack of objection by her family seemed to have made things even worse.

"Esme," said Edward now, looking concerned. "Esme, it's all right. Nobody here minds."

"It's a part of our life," Carlisle put in gently. "We've all caused the family to move at some point."

"But we've only been here a few years," she objected, very upset. "And this is such a nice place -"

"We'll come back one day," he assured her.

"In seventy years at the very least," she pointed out. "What about your friends here, Carlisle?"

It was true that the thought of leaving this place saddened him more than usual. It was very rare for him to make friends with humans. Here had been the some of closest he had ever had. He was happy, he liked Stan and his wife, he liked Dr Terrance, he liked his hospital. He would miss them. But he had always been prepared to leave at some point.

"Esme, I have left friends behind before," he said earnestly. "It's not easy, but it's part of my choice. I choose to live a life with humans in exchange for temporary relationships with them."

She shook her head.

"Why are you so upset about this?" Rosalie asked. "You never object at other times, when it's any of us. It's the same, Esme."

"I just know how much you all love living here," said Esme.

"I've made you move countless times," said Emmett kindly. "This is nothing to _me_."

"And what of me?" said Jasper in a calming tone as Alice nodded from beside him. "We had a phase where we would barely stay more than a year in any one place because of me. And you never made me feel guilty about it."

Everyone in the room suddenly felt less edgy as he spoke. Esme gave him an indulgent smile.

"Jasper, you don't need to-"

"I think he does," said Edward, with a small smile. "You're making yourself slightly hysterical, Esme."

Carlisle had barely glanced away from her for the entirety of the conversation. He knew that her emotions were confusing themselves and that for some reason, the thought of moving was where she had chosen to direct her distress. He imagined that it made the repercussions of the deed seem more extensive and more real to her. He gripped her hand more tightly in his, pressing it close to his abdomen.

"It may be for the best anyway," Jasper continued. "Maybe you and Carlisle can take a longer break together before we settle again."

"And Rose and I would appreciate the privacy after so long," said Emmett with a grin and a wink.

Whenever they moved on, they tended to break apart for a couple of months until the start of the school year. Rosalie and Emmett often went somewhere to be alone and extra sexual (the family had various little cabins scattered around the world). Esme and Carlisle would go to their island for a few weeks together and see then some of their friends from around the world. Alice and Jasper would travel to stay with some of Jasper's old friends for a while. Edward tended to travel with Alice and Jasper, or with Carlisle and Esme during their non-island time, or stay with the Denali's. They all liked to visit with the Denali coven anyway, although for varying times.

Carlisle and Esme would then go ahead of the family to prepare their home in their new town, usually having found it before moving from their old place. Esme would take the time to build or renovate, with the assistance of Carlisle, usually Edward who rejoined them quickly, and their other children in varying combinations. The period between living areas _was_ always a pleasant time for the family, it was true. Like a long care-free holiday.

Jasper's calming effects were working very well and Carlisle watched, with relief, as his wife's shoulders began to lose their tension.

"Yes," she agreed vaguely, still smiling at Jasper in affection, slightly amused at his blatant handling of her mood. Then she turned her eyes over all her children, saying, "Thank you all … for being so kind."

There followed a few minutes as they all assured her that she needn't thank them, that they loved her, that they were more than grateful to _her_ for all she did for them. Alice came to sit on Esme's other side, her arms around her shoulders, speaking words of affection. Esme seemed overwhelmed. Carlisle thought about how strange it was that she didn't see that she meant as much to them as they did to her.

Then, by an oddly silent mutual consent, their children disappeared from the room, tactfully leaving the two heads of the family alone together. Esme looked at him, studying his face.

"You _are_ sad to leave," she concluded after a pause.

"Yes," he admitted gently. "Of course. But so are you."

She shook her head sadly.

"I know that this place has been especially wonderful for you, Carlise," she said with a sigh. "I'm so sorry. _So_ sorry, I -"

"Please don't apologise anymore," he implored. "Esme, it's what needs to be done. You're right that I will miss this place, but never think that that would ever outweigh my devotion to the safety of our family. I am happy that we _can_ leave. That we can be safe. That we can start over. We are very lucky. _I_ am very lucky."

She nodded, her eyes forlorn but resigned.

"I feel even luckier to have a husband who thinks that way," she told him with a sad smile.

He grinned at her.

"If anything, I look forward to a nice long sojourn at Isle Esme."

Suddenly, out of nowhere, like a bright ray of sunlight breaking free of the blackest storm, she beamed delightedly back at him, clearly having picked up on his slightly lascivious tone. As was true of their kind, any thought of prolonged and unrestrained physical affections was always greatly appealing. It amused him that that had been the thought that had finally dissolved her misgivings. And so, he leaned forward to kiss her very softly, yet very suggestively.

She giggled into the kiss and all seemed right once more.

x x x

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought.


	4. June 2006: Bree

**A/N: **Thanks again to those who reviewed, favourited or followed this story :-)

**Disclaimer:** The concept of Twilight and its characters do not belong to me, but to Stephanie Meyer.

x x x

June 2006: Bree

Considering the fact that she was a blood-sucking monster, Esme thought that she generally led a fairly quiet life. A happy one, a careful one, but not overly eventful. There were, of course, moments where things got a bit stressful, usually involving accidental attacks on humans, but on the whole, major events in their lives were spaced out. By decades.

The first decade or so of her life as a vampire had probably been the most eventful one, and that wasn't even counting the four years of her human life preceding that. Being turned, finding Carlisle again, meeting Edward, learning to resist human blood, falling in love with Carlisle, marrying Carlisle, gaining a son in Edward, losing Edward and getting him back again, finding Rosalie and dealing with her unique set of baggage and then gaining Emmett. All very busy, looking back.

But things had calmed down after that for some time, until, of course, Alice and Jasper came to them. That had been a busy time in the beginning especially, what with Jasper's overwhelming struggle to commit to their lifestyle. But even that had settled into no more than a vague background awareness. And so another calm few decades had passed.

And then Edward had met Bella.

That singular event had preceded the busiest year and a half of the entirety of Esme's existence. So very much happened with (and to) Bella.

The stressors were many. Bella was human. Edward wildly desired her blood. Edward risked exposure and the goodwill of his family to save Bella's life. Edward fell in love with Bella. Bella fell in love with Edward. Bella was chased down by a stalker vampire that their family had to kill to protect her. Bella was the target of vengeance from that vampire's mate. Bella frightened Edward with her vulnerability. Edward insisted the family move to keep her safe. Edward's heart broke. Edward nearly killed himself when he thought Bella had died. Bella infuriated the Volturi by her knowledge and humanness. Bella had to commit to becoming one of them. Edward cringed at the thought. The family moved back again. Bella and Edward got engaged. Bella befriended wolves who hated their family.

And now, a whole army of newborns had come to attack their family because of her, so that Victoria could kill her, at long last.

It was a lot, Esme thought. A lot happening for someone with such a mild lifestyle. She could not lie about how much she disliked the strain. Being constantly worried about her family's safety and happiness, especially Edward and Bella, was an emotionally exhausting state of being. If it hadn't been for her overwhelming joy at Edward finally having found his mate, his happiness, and for her intense and immediate love for Bella, Esme may have struggled far more with the situation. Even more so without the constant strength she found in her own mate.

Well, anyway, the battle with the newborns had been stressful enough. She had been frightened for so many people, frightened for herself, frightened for the wild newborns her family were killing … it was wearying. However, in the aftermath, the relief that they had all survived had provided an excellent antidote to her distress.

Until those horrible vampires had killed little Bree.

Esme had known Bree for an extremely short time. But from the moment she had curiously approached her husband and the young frightened-looking newborn, she had felt an instinctive rush of protectiveness for her. The same rush that Carlisle had clearly felt. They were both aware of the potential danger of this girl, but it didn't seem so important in the moment.

She was innocent. She needed their help.

That Carlisle had offered her sanctuary in exchange for her surrender, was one of those things he simply did that made Esme feel blissfully aware of how deeply she loved him. They thought as one. She would have done the same thing, and he knew it. Just turning to him, just hesitantly asking, "Can we …" had been enough. They had both known that they would adopt her as one of them. From that moment, Esme had thought of her as a new member of their ever growing family.

The confrontation with the Volturi was horribly painful. Carlisle and Edward ... both of them tried every method they could come up with to save the girl. She could tell by the tension all over his body that Carlisle was filled with frustration and desperation, although he didn't make this immediately clear to anyone else. He stayed as calm as he could, reasoned, pleaded. But it was fruitless.

She realised it, too. The Volturi … it was impossible to beat them with anything other than eloquent words and promises. That had been what had saved Bella before. But if the words weren't working, there was nothing left to be done. And now, now there _was_ nothing left to be done.

Helplessly, they watched Bree approached by her murderer. Helplessly, Esme gripped her husband's arm. Helplessly, he hung his head in defeat and grief. Helplessly, she clenched her eyes shut during that final, sickening, icy moment, a strangled "No," escaping her throat.

It had all been so unbearably quick, the gap between finding her, loving her and watching her die.

x x x

The rest of the family was happy. Relieved.

Esme and Carlisle were happy and relieved, too, and yet simultaneously grief stricken.

The rest of the day passed how it should have. Fussing over Bella. Healing and comforting each other. Carlisle spent much of it helping Jacob Black. And so forth. It didn't matter. She and Carlisle went through the motions, practised being normal and happy, and saved their grief for later. It was a very personal, very private grief. One that belonged only to the two of them and that had nothing to do with the others. They didn't inflict it upon their family.

But when, at last, the night came, Esme softly withdrew to herself. She went upstairs into hers and Carlisle's bedroom and sat down on the large soft bed with a sigh. She wanted to yawn, to curl up underneath the fluffy covers and drift off into a peaceful dreamy sleep. Pity she couldn't do that anymore. She had always missed sleeping, mainly, she guessed, because it had been her one form of escape in her human life. She flopped backwards onto the covers, savoured the comfort and closed her eyes.

Her husband would be up soon, she knew.

Suddenly overwhelmed with the sense of being filthy with the horror of the day, she got back to her feet and headed straight for their en suite bathroom. Without thinking much about it, she slid out of her clothes, turned on the hot water and stepped into the spacious, luxurious shower. Esme had been especially generous in her design of their bathroom, having always enjoyed the human activities of showering and soaking in a hot bath. She also enjoyed the fun she and her husband shared while partaking in such activities together.

Tonight she appreciated the friendly and comforting luxury of her shower. The water flowed out at just the right pressure so that it felt like warm liquid silk slithering soothingly through her hair and over her body. She stood under the water with her eyes closed and savoured it.

A couple of minutes later, she became aware of her husband flitting, lightening quick, into the bathroom.

She opened her eyes to find him smiling lovingly at her, his eyes still saddened. The shadow across his face hurt her. She returned his smile all the same, and watched vaguely as he removed his clothes. Then he stepped smoothly under the hot water to join her and in one motion, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. She hugged him back, returning the comforting gesture. They both needed it.

He pulled back slightly to look at her, and she looked at him. He was so good and pure, his eyes so full of compassion and love that the unfairness of what had happened that day struck her. Had it been up to him, that poor girl would be alive and safe right now. Had it been up to him, the newborns would never have gotten this far. Had it been up to him, many of them would still be alive. Had it been up to him, no-one would have had to endanger their lives today … But as fate would have it, those decisions were left up to a group of beings that she sometimes suspected were as evil as Carlisle was good.

"I hate them," she said now, hearing her voice tremble with emotion as it echoed around the room, mingling with the patter of the water. She lowered her voice a bit. "I hate them so much … They … they only want … they would have killed our son and the girl he loves, they let us be attacked, they hoped for us to lose … they kill … they don't care what's right or fair or …"

She stopped then, because it was clear that her mind was a jumble. It didn't matter. He understood.

"Mm," was all he uttered, though. She knew he didn't trust himself to speak. He disliked expressing ill will too strongly, however he may feel inside. But he shared her sentiments with his eyes, his grief. His distaste for the Volturi tended to result in sadness as opposed to anger. Generally speaking, anyway. He had been angry when they had approached Bree that day. She had seen his fury, his uncharacteristically blazing eyes in the moment before the pain struck him and he hung his head.

She opened her mouth to say something comforting, but realised that her emotions were blocking her throat. The last image of Bree's frightened eyes before her death hit her once again, burned into her mind. More than the grief she felt for the girl, the horror of the image lay in the faces of each of the members of her family. She saw their frightened expressions, the hands closing around their necks, heard the loud cracking sound-

With a tiny shake of her head, she tried to remove the thought. It was too sickening, too nightmarish.

She swallowed hard and wished she had tears to shed for Bree. Her heart was sobbing rivers for that girl, but her eyes refused to release even a droplet in memory of the death of the youngest, newest, briefest member of their family. One who had endured the very thing Esme had been fearing for the rest …

Carlisle's hands were running soothingly up and down her arms and she realised that her face was scrunched up as if she _was_ in fact crying. She let out a little sob and he held her again. They stood there, allowing their mutual embrace to provide comfort and the warm silky water to wash the horror gently away. They stayed, because on some mutual level, they knew that this would be their time to grieve. They would actively mourn and cry tonight, together, here in the shower, and then they would move on. They would always think back on the girl with sadness and regret, but … Now was the time to grieve.

Carlisle pulled back again once her breathing had calmed, turned and reached for her body wash and a loofah. He squirted some of the transparent light blue gel onto the netting, clipped the bottle shut and replaced it on the shelf. As he scrunched the loofah in on itself, allowing some water to cover the soapy mass, his strong hands grew covered with white foam. The artificial scent of lilies exploded into the shower, washing over Esme in a wave of sweetness.

Once it seemed as if he was miraculously holding onto nothing but a ball of foam, he gently placed it against her upper arm. Slowly he moved it across her skin, gently and methodically scrubbing every portion of skin he came across, moving down her arm, back up over her shoulder, down her left side, the lily fragrance clinging to her skin in his wake.

It was wholly unnecessary for them to buy human soap, and even more unnecessary to buy fragranced soap. Their venom cleaned them more thoroughly and provided them with a scent more delicious than could be captured by any human laboratory. And yet she bought this lily-flavoured body wash and, every now again, used it.

Now was a perfect time. Her husband was actively cleaning off the day, actively removing the scents and dust that had surrounded her misery, replacing her own scent of destruction with a pleasant and unnatural substitute that made her feel better, cleaner, innocent. Carlisle's gentle ministrations continued across her abdomen, up to her chest and breasts, her clavicles and then onto her right arm.

She watched his face as he moved, watched his tender concentration as he focused on removing any evidence of her miserable day and replacing it only with evidence of his love. He moved over her back, covering her shoulder blades and sponging his way down to her lower back. It was a comforting area and, seeming to know this, he remained there for some time. He knelt down to soap her legs, and she took the opportunity to caress his hair.

When he stood up, he smiled at her with tremendous affection in his eyes. He squeezed the soap out of the loofah and hung it back up on its hook. He then reached for the shampoo that lived in bathroom as well. Once he had a dollop in his hand, he reached forward and rubbed it into her hair. This time, it was the smell of apples that enveloped them. His talented fingers engaged in a marvelously soothing head massage as he worked, one she never wanted to end. He didn't stop for quite some time, so that by the time he was rinsing the soap out of her hair, she felt calmer and cleaner than she could have hoped.

Once she was thoroughly cleaned and rinsed, he faced her and gave her a smile that made her feel like she was staring directly into the sun. Then he gave her a soft kiss on her lips and whispered that he loved her, just like she liked.

They stayed in the shower for long enough for her to return the favour. She too cleaned him slowly, methodically and wordlessly. By this time in their relationship, they often found wordless communication to be a more effective way of expressing their emotions to each other. Words could be limiting, and while they didn't ignore verbal expressions of love and pain, they often descended into silent patches like this. Silence worked better when their feelings were too much for language to manage.

When at last he reached around her and turned off the water, all she really felt was exhaustion. He stepped out ahead of her and was back a split second later, draping a soft fluffy towel over her shoulders as his eyes smiled down at her. He rubbed the towel against her body a few times before she clutched it around herself. They both exited onto the tiles and he reached for a towel as well, rubbing it over his body. She kept hers around her like a friendly cloak.

"Carlisle?"

"Yes?"

"Can we sleep tonight?"

"Yes, I think so."

He smiled before his eyes vanished as he ruffled his hair dry under the towel. When he finished and removed the towel from his head, she couldn't help a grin. Even so spectacularly tousled, his hair managed only to make him look even more endearing. After hanging his towel up, he headed to their bedroom and she followed, her towel still around her.

He began to dig around in his closet, looking for one of the two pairs of pyjama pants he owned.

Of course, they weren't actually going to sleep. It was impossible. But very early on in their relationship, when Carlisle had discovered how much she sometimes missed sleep, he had suggested she go through the motions of it anyway.

"What do you mean?" she had asked, puzzled.

"Well, get into bed, close your eyes and lie still in the dark," he had explained, eyeing her in amusement as she had rolled her eyes.

"Yes," she had said, "I understand the motions, but what will that do? I want to sleep."

"It will be relaxing at the very least," he had said with a shrug. "Think of it like meditation."

She had tried it out and it had been fruitless at first. She had barely been able to lie there for ten minutes before feeling restless. Carlisle encouraged her to keep trying, insisting that it simply required practice. Amused when she had told him that she missed him in her bed when she lay there, he had offered to join her.

It had taken them a long time to get it right. At first, they had lain there in each other's arms and had whispered conversations despite their attempts to lie in silence. When they did manage to stop speaking, it had lasted for mere minutes before conversation or activities of a more physical nature ensued. After quite some time, they had managed to lie still for up to an hour, and then two, like a nap. With enough practice over almost ninety years, they could now lie immobile and silent in each other's arms all night, drifting in their thoughts, as close to sleep as was remotely possible for their kind.

They never "slept" apart.

Carlisle turned to face her now. He was in a plain white T-shirt and light blue striped flannel pyjama pants. His hair was still tousled and she thought that she had never seen him look quite as human as when he was about to "sleep". Smiling at his raised eyebrows, she finally removed her towel and went to the drawer that contained her less limited nightwear (hers contained more seductive outfits than comfortable pyjamas). Bypassing much of what was in there, she too changed into a matching set of comfortable attire as he went to hang up her towel.

Then they turned out the lights and climbed into their bed, which had such a high thread count that it felt as though they were lying in heaven. Moving as one, they met in the centre of the bed and she snuggled into his arms, her head on his shoulder. Once more, for the thousandth time, she saw Bree's wide frightened eyes, staring at her, begging for protection. Begging to be taken care of.

"I feel as though we lost a daughter today," she said softly.

"We did," he muttered. "She would have been our daughter had she not died."

"I wish we could have …" she began, and then stopped. It was pointless to go there.

Still, he replied miserably, "Yes, me too. More than you could imagine."

She heard a distinct note of anguish in his voice.

"You did more … than anyone else would have done for her. There was just no … it could never have been enough."

"No," he agreed, hopelessness now clouding his tone.

They heaved a mutual sigh and he kissed her temple.

"Things will feel better in the morning," she said, clinging to that childish belief that sleep could wipe the slate clean.

"Yes, they will," he assented kindly.

She smiled to herself.

"Goodnight, Esme, my dear," came the final rustle of his voice.

"Goodnight, Carlisle."

x x x

**A/N: **So I have a couple more chapters in the works, but I am open to any ideas you guys might have for a scenario you'd like me to write around. I won't guarantee anything, but if an idea strikes my muse, I'll write it. Let me know what you think!


	5. September 2006: Renesmee

**A/N: **Hi ... (blush) Yeah, it's been a whiiiile. But anyway, I have this and one more chapter for this little collection. Thanks so much to everyone for reading so far, for bothering to come back and read now and for your reviews. I hope you enjoy this :-)

**Disclaimer:** The concept of Twilight and its characters do not belong to me, but to Stephanie Meyer.

x x x

September 2006: Renesmee

Bella's pregnancy had brought more unexpected hardship and conflict than any of them had imagined. Even Alice had been surprised by the turn of events, only picking up on what would happen when it was too late. The conflict was bitter, and Esme hated it. Any pain her children suffered caused her pain. Anything that tore apart her family brought her misery. And now she was watching them silently side against each other, watching her son's marriage disintegrate and her new daughter-in-law grow ill and lonely.

Worse, almost, was her and Carlisle's disagreement on how to proceed. They very rarely disagreed and as such, they barely knew how to handle it. Although, she reflected, they did tend to handle it better than Edward, whose policy seemed to be to withdraw emotionally, distancing himself from his wife. It pained Esme to watch, but she said not a word, knowing he could read how she felt anyway.

In addition, since she had supported Bella's decision, Edward had distanced himself from her, too, something that caused her much pain. She did her utmost not to dwell on it, however, as she didn't want him to realise the extent of her hurt and feel guilty. He had a right to feel as he did.

As for her and Carlisle, the shock of realising that they ultimately felt differently about how to proceed had hit them rather hard. They had refused to discuss it in front of their children, or to express their distress at the other's stance, but it could not escape the notice of any of them. They had sought to have a private conversation very soon after the near-confrontation had occurred, leaving the house so as to be away from Edward, and running to smallish rock pool near a soft waterfall that was their favourite secluded spot in the forest.

They had run side by side, holding hands where they could, both determined to maintain their unity in the face of their disagreement. For neither had ever felt anger for the other, and both knew this would not be where that started. Instead, they would seek to discover where the other stood and to explain their points of view. Settling themselves beside each other on a rock that formed an outcropping over the pool, their legs dangling off the side and their hands still joined, they turned to lock eyes.

For several moments, there stretched a silence as both considered how best to proceed, for this was unfamiliar territory. In the end, she closed her eyes, sighed, and reproachfully murmured his name.

He shook his head as though he didn't agree with her tone, and said earnestly, "I'm only looking to protect Bella. This will kill her."

She eyed him, and said quietly, "Maybe not."

"It'll be an incredibly close call."

"Either way, it's her decision."

Even as she said it, she felt a bit silly, and Carlisle's eyebrows shot up at her.

"I know," she said quickly. "I know, you know that, and that isn't the point …"

"No," he agreed in his gentle voice. "No, the point is to discuss where we stand. Because, Esme, if at all possible, I would like for us to be in agreement."

She nodded, wanting that as well. But she knew she would never change her view.

"Yes, me too, but …"

There was another long silence as he regarded her, and then he let go of her hand so that he could reposition himself to sit facing her. She mimicked his movement, crossing her legs. He sat with one leg bent up so that he could rest his forearm on his knee as he looked at her. Even now, she thought about how beautiful he looked, a rare ray of sunlight playing over their rock so that he glittered, his soft good eyes resting earnestly, lovingly on her. Almost as though he read her thoughts, his mouth softened into a very tender smile.

"You have to understand," he began quietly, but jerkily, clearly feeling as unfamiliar with the scenario as she was. "As a doctor, I … we are trained … I mean, we practise with priority to the mother. If a woman is carrying a baby that threatens her health, her health comes first and the baby is aborted. It's the policy."

"Have you ever abided by policy as opposed to conscience?" she asked him. It was not said with anger or ill feeling, for she knew he was ruled by his compassion. She truly needed to understand why he felt this way.

"Of course not. Not if the policy goes against my conscience," he replied mildly. "So, I suppose you now want to know how I could not feel compassion for an unborn child."

She only watched him for a moment, before she responded firmly, "No, I know you have compassion for it. This is our son's child, Carlisle, and I know you care very much. I just don't understand how that compassion is being overridden."

"There is … _logic_ behind the policy, Esme, as well as careful consideration. I realise it sounds harsh, but a mother has more ties to the world than a baby. She has family, friends, experience, life … You _know_ that I value the life that she bears, but the loss of a grown woman has more impact than that of a baby. Not necessarily more tragedy or pain, although I dispute that it has less … But more impact on those affected."

There was a pause as she considered his point. He spoke with earnest truth. She knew he generally disliked the idea of abortion, but here he was presenting a point of view held by the medical community as a whole. He had been part of that community for centuries, so she was unsurprised at his agreement, particularly since there _was_ truth to what he said.

"All right," she said in acknowledgement of his case. "I understand your point." He gave a nod, but continued to watch as he waited for her to present her own view. She chewed on her lip as she considered how best to approach what she was going to say, for the conversation was a bit of a minefield.

"I know how it may sound, but I need to reference my experiences with my first son …"

She faltered and looked closely at his expression, but he appeared unsurprised.

"Of course," he murmured, as though he had expected nothing less.

Again, she hesitated. There were hurts she needed to avoid in the conversation. She did not want to get him to change his mind out of sympathy for her loss, or out of guilt for the fact that she could never bear children again. It was a conversation that presented itself from time to time, and one of the very few that could cause some pain between them. She didn't want that now. She merely wanted to explain.

"I … can't quite emphasise to you the love a mother feels for her baby as it grows inside her," she said at last, keeping her voice steady and watching him. "To a man, that love begins once he sees his baby because that's when it becomes real to him. To a woman, the baby is real from the moment it affects her body, from the moment she can feel her child." She paused again, gauging his reaction, but he was still watching her with an intelligent intensity, attempting to understand.

"It's a foreign concept until you've experienced it for yourself, Carlisle, but in any event, you have to try and understand. To Bella, her baby _is_ alive, _is_ a person, has ties and experience … I also terribly hate to bring this up, but part of me thinks that this might be further intensified by the knowledge that this will be the only child she and Edward could ever have. It's true that women who have lost a child shy from the consolation that things will work out because they can have another child in the future. I know that from experience. But I think that on some level, deep down, it _does_ provide a ray of hope. It doesn't alleviate the tragedy, but there is hope that the love she felt for her child won't be lost forever, devoid of its object of devotion. Hope that one day it will be allowed to love again, and dim the loss.

"This, again, is something I know, because had it not been for the presence of Edward and, later, the rest of our beloved family, the love I give to them as a mother will have been empty, devoid of purpose and a terrible wound in my life. I had another chance, but will Bella? Without her child, her love will be alone and lost, and that loss will permeate her existence for a very long time. Carlisle … This is as much about saving Bella as it is about saving her child."

She stopped there, not wanting to push him. She was desperately afraid that she may have resurrected that past guilt he had for her loss, but she prayed that he would overlook that feeling and examine her point; why she knew that he could never take this child away from their new daughter.

He was watching her, and her heart sank as she observed a pained expression flicker across his face. In a moment, she was at his side once more, her arms curving around his shoulders and her head pressing into his neck. Her tearless eyes burned from the desire to cry at his pain, and she murmured an apology into his ear.

He, however, gave a small shake of his head, and said gently, "No, don't be sorry. I … am not feeling guilty; I'm merely feeling pain for your loss. Much like you are for me at this moment."

She pulled her head up so that he could turn his eyes to face her. They were filled with adoration and understanding.

"Thank you for explaining to me," he said quietly, sincerely. "I … You're right, it's not something I could have fully understood … Although now I feel I have been insensitive, dismissing her pain so."

"You weren't dismissing it; you just didn't understand the extent of it …"

She gave him a smile then, one of deep love.

"I'm afraid a part of me is thinking more about Edward," he confessed, "and how it would tear him apart to lose Bella. How it would tear me apart to lose you, and … I couldn't bear to do that to him. I'm afraid for what may happen to him if she were to die.

Esme understood that more than he could ever know. It frightened her constantly, as the thought of Bella's death had driven Edward to suicide once before. The horror of that day was something she was not keen to relive.

"I know," she told him, hearing the pain in her own voice. "It terrifies me, too."

"So, you see why …" He faltered again, and looked imploringly at her. His love and fear on Edward's behalf was still stronger, still more real to him than that of Bella for her baby.

She paused, once more considering how best to say what she was about to say, because it was a stand she loathed to take, one that sickened her, and one that would crush her if he chose to go against her. Opposing her darling Carlisle broke something inside her very soul and made her fear her inability to cope without his ever present support at her side.

"I do understand," she whispered at last, her voice pained. But then she hardened her tone in firm resolve. "But as long as Bella intends to save this child, I can never support your taking it from her. Never."

Another long silence ensued as he gazed at her earnestly, weighing his thoughts, his feelings, his pain, and she gazed back with as much love and apology as she could muster.

Then he lowered his head slightly in gentle acquiescence.

"In that case, you know I will never go against you, my love," he murmured with humble submission.

She had released a breath in something akin to relief, only it was also one of regret. It was not an ideal agreement, but she also knew that had Carlisle been as vehemently cemented to his point of view as she was, he would not have caved as quickly. He may not entirely agree with her, but he was also not entirely sure of his own choice.

"Thank you," she said softly, so softly that no human ear would have heard her. She peered very hard into his eyes through her own eyelids, eyelids that were once more burning with unshedable tears. The conflict scraped against her heart like sandpaper, and she feared it would continue to do so despite the resolution.

"Forgive me," she said now, afraid of the position she had put him in.

His eyes, which had been so very serious, suddenly softened immeasurably, as though from brass to honey. His fingers came up to rest gently against her jaw, his thumb on her cheek, where he slowly caressed her skin.

"My sweet darling," he said in a voice of such devotion that the sandpaper on her soul turned instantly to cotton wool. "Never ask forgiveness for what is in your heart. I am with you on this and I will support you with everything I have, because I trust in you, in your judgement and in your heart. I have no doubt that your decision is the right one, simply because of your passionate certainty."

He leaned forward then, and they shared in a kiss of reunion, a joyous, passionate kiss as their resolves once more became one, and they once more joined as a single entity, a single unit, strong against the world and impermeable to any force.

They had sat there, their arms around each other, leaning against the rock that climbed up the waterfall in the weak sunlight until it faded, and was replaced by the white-blue moonlight. They had spoken very little during the rest of the afternoon, but had exchanged much in looks and gesture, not least their relief and pleasure at their unity. Their return had been met with anticipation, not because it would change Bella's mind, but because their unified decision would dictate the response of the household. Before they had uttered a word, however, Edward had stormed out of the room, no doubt having seen Carlisle's decision in his mind.

It had taken some effort, but Carlisle had managed to talk him down. He had made no attempt to convince him, but had promised that he would do everything in his power to assure that Bella survived. He promised Edward that she would be his priority at the time of her delivery, and that he would fight for her life with everything he had. Edward had believed and accepted him, knowing that Carlisle at least understood his point of view better than any of the rest of them.

But only Carlisle had the honour of his acceptance and trust. Edward could not forgive the rest of them, including his loving and slightly shattered mother. Day after slow day crept past, and she sorely missed her usually tender son. However, she was grateful that he was allowing Carlisle to take care of him and be there for him. Because she could take care of him and be there for him through her husband, for their every deed of love and emotion was as one. And she knew that as long as they could maintain that link, her son would come back to her when he was ready.

He always did.

x x x


End file.
